


synaisthēsis

by orphan_account



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Classical Music, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Iwaizumi has low self esteem, Love Confessions, M/M, Oikawa is a star, Pianist!Iwaizumi, Slow Burn, Synaesthesia, lots of metaphors about music, overuse of 'iwa-chan', self-indulgent hand holding, very loosely based on your lie in april, violinist!Oikawa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-08
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:48:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21565594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: For Oikawa Tooru, life is an abstract painting, with colours swirling together in his vision, dotting the world around him. When asked about his view of the world, Tooru can only call himself a modern Van Gogh.For Oikawa Tooru, school is a backdrop of oranges, yellows and pinks, coupled with the occasional green, high pitched wail of a passing child. It is a happy, joyous, bright world.For Oikawa Tooru, the colour blue is a rarity.(In which Oikawa has synaesthesia and Iwaizumi's music is blue.)
Relationships: Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru
Comments: 5
Kudos: 52





	synaisthēsis

**Author's Note:**

> Um.... I love classical music so much.
> 
> This is mostly self-indulgent work, because I grew up with a musician father and I have synaesthesia (although different from Oikawa's, since I can feel sounds and vice versa) but I really wanted to write an AU including music and synaesthesia and here I am.
> 
> Um, there's 5 musical pieces in this work, so for those of you who want to listen to them as I list them, I'll list them below. I think they're quite important to the integrity of the fic, but it's your choice c:
> 
> Clair de Lune
> 
> Schumann's Kinderszenen (Scenes from Childhood)
> 
> Beethoven's Kreutzer Sonata
> 
> Einaudi's Nuvole Bianche
> 
> Einaudi's Passaggio
> 
> I've only beta'd this twice, so feel free to point out any silly mistakes I could have made. I tend to overlook a lot of those.

“Is that… the Iwaizumi Hajime?”

“He’s notorious, isn’t he?”

“Notoriously bad is what I’ve heard.”

“I’ve seen him perform before. Or rather, freeze up on stage for a total of two minutes before being escorted off.”

“Has he ever passed a preliminary contest?”

“Not once.”

“Dear me, why is he still being allowed up there?”

“His parents, or so I’m told."

“Poor child.”

It’s wrong. Again. Hajime lets his hands fall lax against the ivory keys of the piano, earning a weak, discorded chorus of notes from the instrument. Nothing loud enough to reach the audience, either way. Whispers begin filling the hall as he remains still, unmoving. He can hear them all - the small chuckles of the contestants prior to him, the disappointed sighs of the judges, and finally, his mother’s voice faintly calling him from backstage.

He feels the usual pinprick of tears at the corner of his eyes, and stands abruptly, knocking the stool down to the floor with a loud clatter. The only sound he’s managed to make, in the entire evening, powerful enough to be carried across the audience. Those sitting in the velvet seats promptly quiet down, wide eyes watching him as he storms off the stage.

Hajime doesn’t need their laughter to know how incompetent he is.

For not being able to play before a live audience.

Hajime is a machine, stuck in the same roundabout routine: wake up, go to school, practice the piano during lunch break, practice the piano after school, go home, practice some more, do homework, eat dinner, take a bath, go to sleep, dream of nothing.

Rinse and repeat.

His hands clench at his sides as his mother tries to comfort him. “You’ll be able to get it next time,” she’s saying as she leads him out of the building, avoiding the blatant stares of onlookers. “I know you will.”

Hajime is aware that she’s lying. After all, they both know that this isn’t the first time he hasn’t managed to perform.

It’s not that he cannot play the piano. It’s quite the contrary. Hajime’s skills with the piano are impressive when playing at home, in the confines of a music room, or performing in front of his family during Christmas. He knows the notes that are written on the sheet music, and he knows how to read them, how to recreate them. The clockwork machinery inside his body leads his fingers to play exactly as they should.

He can play the score without fault, then.

However, the moment he meets the eyes of his audience, as he bows down to thank them for their time, the gears in his body shift. Suddenly, he feels like an entirely new machine. One that his brain does not know how to operate.

Notorious was an appropriate adjective.

Iwaizumi Hajime is indeed notorious.

Notoriously artificial.

For Oikawa Tooru, life is an abstract painting, with colours swirling together in his vision, dotting the world around him. When asked about his view of the world, Tooru can only call himself a modern Van Gogh.

For Oikawa Tooru, school is a backdrop of oranges, yellows and pinks, coupled with the occasional green, high pitched wail of a passing child. It is a happy, joyous, bright world.

For Oikawa Tooru, the colour blue is a rarity.

The door to the music room opening is what rouses Hajime from his tired slump. He doesn’t lift his head from the piano to greet whoever came in, well aware that the space between the keys would have imprinted on his forehead by now, considering he’d been in this position for the past 10 minutes.

Better save himself some embarrassment.

The person who so rudely interrupted his practice session (despite him having booked this damn slot) is silent, so when they press a few keys on the piano, Hajime nearly jumps out of his skin. The person doesn’t relent, however, they keep pressing the keys, a soft melody emanating from the belly of the instrument, like tinkling bells.

He smells flowers, still refuses to raise his head.

“Did you know that your music is blue?”

They — or, well, he, Hajime assumes — has a nice voice. Melodic, breezy, easy on the ears. He straightens up out of complete reflex, ignoring the potential embarrassment at the marks on his forehead, to look at the intruder.

His cheeks heat up immediately, and he realises that perhaps he’s made a mistake.

The boy standing before him is beautiful. No other word comes to Hajime’s mind to describe him, because he has eyes twinkling like starlight and a smile so easy to reciprocate, Hajime has to force his lips down into a frown.

“I don’t know what that means,” he finally bites out, and the boy’s eyes widen for a fraction of a second, as if he is surprised by the fact that Hajime has no idea what he’s talking about. The boy schools his expression back into that smile quickly, tapping slender fingers against the ivory keys next to Hajime’s hand.

“I’m Oikawa Tooru,” he says, tipping his head forward in greeting. “I can see sounds.”

“That’s great, Oikawa, now if you’d please leave me alone, I have to practice this.”

Tooru bristles. “So bitter! You haven’t even told me your name!”

“Iwaizumi. Now leave.”

Tooru pouts, petulant. “You’re not even a little curious about what I meant when I said your music was blue, Iwa-chan?”

“Iwa-? You know what, I don’t care what you meant. Just leave, please.”

With that, Hajime raises a hand and pushes Tooru away from the piano. Tooru, surprisingly, obeys, leaving the room with a quiet huff. Hajime breathes a sigh of relief, having expected more arguing and perhaps having to wrestle the other boy out of the room. When the door slides shut, he returns to his routine.

Without Oikawa Tooru, the surprise anomaly.

That night, Hajime dreams of the night sky, coupled with the smell of lilies.

Hajime should have known that said anomaly in his routine would be persistent. Tooru interrupts him again the next day. He can feel the muscles in his brow twitch as the door to the music room opens and closes, just as quietly as before.

“I thought I told you to go away.”

Tooru chuckles. “I must’ve misunderstood, I could swear you craved more of my presence after meeting me.”

“Who the hell would want you around?”

Tooru kneels down by his bag, throwing a small “mean!” over his shoulder, before he pulls out a roll of milk bread. Tearing the wrapper open, he settles himself on the floor, leaning his back against the wall. “I want to hear you play, Iwa-chan.”

Iwa-chan, Hajime thinks. What the hell is up with that nickname?

“Well, I don’t want to play for you, so tough luck.”

“Why not? You sounded good when I heard you yesterday.”

“You said I looked blue, and correct me if I’m wrong, but that doesn’t sound like a compliment to me. Like if you were calling it bad, or something.”

“Bland, not bad. Music should be colourful, not monochrome,” Tooru says flippantly, before his gaze lands on the sheetmusic behind Hajime and his eyes glint. He sets his milkbread down on the floor, although not after carefully placing it back in the torn wrapper, before he walks up to the piano, stopping right next to Hajime. He smells so good — Hajime recognises that smell, would recognise it anywhere. Lilies. His mother always brings them home during the spring.

“Clair de Lune,” Tooru muses, leaning into Hajime’s personal space to read off the score. “That song shouldn’t be blue.”

“You and your colours,” Hajime growls. “What’s it mean to you, what my music looks like, anyway?”

Tooru glances at him, eyes once again gleaming with something Hajime cannot quite place, before he reaches over to pluck the sheet music off the piano. Waltzing away from Hajime’s prying hands, he hums the tune to himself.

Hajime watches Tooru dance around the room to his own tune, his long limbs much too graceful for his own good, before he hesitantly speaks up.

“Do you… play an instrument too?”

Tooru pauses at what Hajime knows is a caesura. “The violin,” he says.

That fits him, Hajime thinks. Tooru spins once more, away from Hajime, and begins humming again too quickly, no longer respecting the score. He adds a few notes here and there, and the further Tooru gets from the original music, the angrier Iwaizumi gets.

“That’s not right, dumbass,” he finally barks, ripping the papers out of the other boy’s grasp.

“So what if it isn’t?” Tooru replies, cheeky grin permanent on his face. “It adds colour to the mix.”

Hajime feels a vein twitch in his temple, reminds himself to breathe. “What does that even mean?”

Tooru laughs. “Finally! You finally asked!” he exclaims as he dances around the room some more, though this time, it’s to a melody Hajime cannot hear. He spins in small circles, arms outstretched, before he brings them in, tucked against his chest. He glances at Hajime, and sighs, dramatically, ending his little performance.

Hajime almost claps. Sarcastically, of course. He doesn’t, absolutely does not, wonder why a creature as ethereal as Tooru would try to get along with a machine like himself.

“It only took you more than 24 hours to finally come around,” Tooru teases, snapping Hajime out of his reverie, and he leans over to slap the other boy on the arm. “Brute!” Tooru whines.

Hajime shoots him an unimpressed glare.

“I can see sounds,” Tooru finally says, echoing his words from the previous day. Hajime’s brows shoot up without his permission, allowing his curiosity to be on full display.

“How does that work?” he asks, setting the sheet music down on the stool behind him. Tooru stifles his laughter with the back of his hand.

“You really don’t know?” he asks, voice almost grating with its teasing lilt. Hajime wants to punch him. He doesn’t know why he even feels so embarrassed under the other boy’s gaze. “You’re turning red!” Tooru pushes on. “Is it that strenuous to use your brain?”

“I will hit you, Shittykawa.”

Tooru gasps, presses slender fingers to his chest. “Shitty- how rude!”

Hajime rolls his eyes.

“Fine. Since your neanderthal brain can’t compute what I’m talking abo- ow!” Tooru rubs the sore spot on his arm with a pout. “Sounds have colours. If you want the specific name for it, it’s synaesthesia. There’s a lot of different types out there. Some people can feel sounds. Some people can taste them. I can see them.”

Hajime sits down on the stool, cringing at the distinct crunching of paper beneath his weight. He’d forgotten about the score. Before Tooru can laugh, Hajime speaks up. “So that’s what you meant when you said my music was blue.”

Tooru nods. “Yes. But Clair de Lune isn’t a blue song. It’s pink. With a bit of yellow, too. Some orange. Mostly pink, though. That’s what I see when I hum it.”

For some reason, Hajime finds Tooru’s corrections of his work incredibly irritating. First off, Tooru had been humming it incorrectly. Second off, Hajime sounds right. He knows he sounds right, because unlike the other boy, he followed the score perfectly, without a hitch.

“If you’re only here to criticise how I play, you can leave,” he snarls, unintentionally putting more bite into his words than necessary. Tooru’s eyes are wide in surprise as Hajime turns back to the piano and forcefully presses a few keys, the loud sound of the piano echoing through the room. He tunes out Tooru’s presence, once again trying to rid himself of the anomaly in his routine.

Tooru leaves the room just as silently as the day before.

The next day, Tooru doesn’t interrupt him during practice. For some reason, it feels almost unnatural to Hajime. Like a misplaced gear, one labelled ‘Oikawa’, that he’d had very little trouble adding to his own clockwork, now confused as to where to be.

He doesn’t know whether to be thankful or annoyed at the lack of an extra presence in the quiet of the music room.

He finishes playing, the last few soft notes of Schumann’s Kinderszenen echoing in the empty room.

Hajime breathes slowly. It was perfect. Perfectly accurate. Perfectly loyal to the score. Perfect.

He sighs at the grim reminder that he’ll never be able to perform it in front of an audience.

“That was blue too, Iwa-chan.” Tooru’s voice makes him jump.

With a small shout, he turns around to find Tooru leaning against the far wall of the music room. How had Hajime not noticed him before?

“What the hell are you doing here?” he barks, feeling his cheeks heat up as the other boy muffles his laughter (he snorts, how cute- he means disgusting) behind his hand. When Tooru calms down, though, he doesn’t poke fun at Hajime.

“If you want your music to be blue, at least mix in more interesting colours with it,” he says, pushing himself off the wall. “I want to see the melancholy, the innocence in this piece! Throw in some violet!”

Hajime can only glare at him, unimpressed.

“How the hell am I supposed to do that,” he deadpans.

“Iwa-chan, are you so underdeveloped as a human being that you have no imagi- ow!”

And so, Tooru somehow forces himself into Hajime’s machine-like routine, claiming that he needed an ‘opinion from someone obviously more educated in the field of creativity than you are, Iwa-chan, and fortunately for you, Oikawa-san is volunteering!’

He quickly discovers, however, that Tooru is a comfortable audience, much like his family, because for all his bravado, the boy is surprisingly quiet. The overwhelming presence, the aura of superiority and the confidence oozing from Tooru disappear the moment the door to the music room shuts behind him. Like a king shedding his mantle, along with the holy aura, revealing mortal man beneath.

That doesn’t stop him from being annoying, though, because Tooru does not catch a hint when it comes to giving unsolicited feedback.

(“That was brown, Iwa-chan! Brown! No music should look like this, unless it’s the soundtrack for when you're underground in Super Mario-“

“Oh my God , will you just shut up already?”)

“Don’t you have other people to spend your afternoons with?” Hajime finally asks, after a few weeks of dealing with Tooru’s shenanigans. The boy in question is lying down on the floor, completing his math homework for the day with so much ease that Hajime wants to punch him.

“Not particularly,” he replies. “And I want Iwa-chan all to myself!”

Hajime flings a pen in the boy’s direction, earning a satisfying squawk as it collides with the back of Tooru’s head.

“Thought you had a fanclub or something. Don’t they ask you out all the time? How come you come here and don’t go out with them?”

Tooru’s mouth twists into a frown at the mention of the girls.

“I don’t want to spend time with them. No matter how many times they ask.”

“Why not?” Hajime retorts. “You’re always smiling and waving a them, and you accept their gifts, and you’re always so charming around them. I don’t know about you, but to me, it kind of looks like you enjoy the attention.”

Tooru’s shoulders shake with laughter. “Iwa-chan, are you jealous?” he quips. “Of course a brute like you wouldn’t be popular with the ladies.”

Hajime looks around for something else to throw at the other boy, until he notices that Tooru’s shoulders have slumped, and he’s no longer scribbling down answers at the speed of light, opting instead to fiddle with the led of his mechanical pencil.

“I don’t want to be mean to them,” Tooru says quietly. “Especially not because they find me attractive. I don’t want to tell them to go away. I just don’t really- I’m not-“

Tooru being at a loss for words and fumbling around is the most entertaining sight Hajime could ask for. Finally, the boy breathes deeply. “I don’t like the way they look at me. They see me and they think I’m prince charming. They think I’m going to be nice, sweet, and gentle, and take them out on dates a lot. But that’s not me. Not really. It’s what they think I’m going to be like. Then they get disappointed, and leave after a week because I prefer practicing rather than going on dates with them and kissing them and-”

Tooru looks back at Hajime with a grin on his face.

“And, if I wanted to go on a date, I’d just go with Iwa-chan!”

Willing his blush away, Hajime flings everything within arms reach at Tooru, relishing in the pained squeals of his friend.

Hajime begins to learn a lot about Tooru, as they spend their time together. After another week spent cooped up together in the music room, Tooru insists that they leave it to other students on Wednesdays, calling it a “date afternoon”. Hajime never bothered to argue against it, considering Tooru would eventually get his way no matter how vehemently Hajime refused.

Despite the fact that Tooru has managed to drag him through the most embarrassing situations Hajime has ever experienced, he also quite enjoys finding out about Tooru through their wild, and not-so-wild escapades.

He learns that Tooru is capable of sending him over 100 selfies in a day.

He learns that Tooru is actually infuriatingly intelligent, and that he is a perfectionist when it comes to quiz scores.

He learns that Tooru tends to panic when put in situations where he has to jump down from high places.

He learns that Tooru uses way too many kaomojis for it to be considered healthy.

He learns that Tooru can frequently eat enough milkbread for two people and not gain an ounce of weight.

All these little details do make him wonder what Tooru learns about him, through those long afternoons that they spend side by side. (Tooru does find out a few interesting things, although he'll never let Iwa-chan know. Like how despite how short-tempered he is, Hajime has the patience of a Saint, and Tooru couldn't be more grateful.)

What Hajime relishes in the most, however, is discovering aspects about Tooru through the cracks in his carefully constructed persona. No matter who he pretends to be on the outside, Tooru lets a lot of details about himself slip into their conversations.

Hajime often tries to chip away at those defences, asking the other boy about his opinions, his feelings, his view of the world, just so he can understand the real Tooru better.

Better than anyone else.

He focuses especially on colours, asking Tooru what he sees when a dog barks, when a plate breaks in the small kitchen of the cafe they’re sitting in, when they hear the music of a child practicing piano through wafting through an open window.

Hajime even asks him what his voice looks like.

(“Your voice?” Tooru tilts his head, wiping away a few crumbs of cake from his mouth. The quiet din of the cafe around them helps release some of the tension Hajime somehow feels for asking the question. “It’s orange.”

Hajime cocks an eyebrow. “Orange? Why’s that?”

Tooru shrugs, his lips twisted around a mix or words, as if handling a delicate subject. “It’s not like I choose the colours that I associate with sounds. It happens naturally, I guess. Take Miyamoto-sensei, for example. Her voice is purple. Kou-chan’s is teal. Some people don’t even have colours — my parents, for example. Your voice just looks orange to me.”

Hajime is about to respond when Tooru gasps, clapping a hand against his cheek. “Maybe it symbolises something! I bet orange is actually the colour of grump- ow! Iwa-chan!”)

Hajime comes to the realisation that, much like himself, Tooru is different from others. However, whereas Hajime is a machine walking amongst humans, Tooru is a star.

Oikawa Tooru is eccentric, wild, completely free and shining so, so bright, his colourful world not a hindrance, but another added part of his beauty. Hajime is almost jealous of him, because where he sees greys and gears, Tooru sees oranges, pinks, and greens. Where Hajime hears the distinct clang of a cage closing around him, pinning him to the floor, Tooru hears the song of a bird, and the wind whizzing past his ears as he floats up into the sky.

“You know you’re different from others, right?” he asks one night, moving away from piano to stand next to Tooru. His fingers are sore from the two hours of constant playing he'd just finished. “How come everyone understands you so well?”

Tooru doesn’t reply right away, mind lost somewhere in the stars shining bright above their heads. “That was a darker blue, Iwa-chan,” he finally whispers.

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

Hajime knows that pointing it out is futile. Tooru is always aloof, with his head in the clouds and his sight in stars, where he, too, belongs. There is little point in trying to pin him down to Earth, down to gritty and less impressive subjects. Tooru’s gaze doesn’t leave the sky.

“Can you make it to the Sun Plaza on Saturday?” he asks.

Hajime shrugs. “Maybe. Is there a concert you want to see?”

It is Tooru’s turn to shrug. “It’s more like there is something I want to show you.”

It’s only when Hajime gets home that he realises Tooru had completely avoided his question. Twice.

Or so he thought.

Hajime makes his way to the Sun Plaza by bus, the length of the ride setting his nerves on edge. With Tooru, he never knows what he’s walking into. It’s not his first time going along with the other boy’s extravagant plans, and the last time it’d happened, he’d ended up covered in whipped cream and bedridden for two days with a terrible case of indigestion.

That being said, his heart still flutters with the anticipation of this ‘date’ with Tooru.

When he gets to the building, there is the usual background noise of hushed conversations and contestants tuning their instruments in the corners of the lobby. He picks up a pamphlet from the ground and looks at the participant roster, finding out that Tooru is one of them. The fifth in line, to be exact, between a 12 year old prodigy, Shimizu Kiyoko, whom Hajime is well acquainted with, and another high school student. Akaashi Keiji, his name reads.

He takes a glance at Tooru’s photo and promptly feels his cheeks heat up. He’s too used to the other boy’s somehow perfectly messy hair falling over his eyes, and he is not used to seeing Tooru like this. In the photo, his hair is slicked back, and he has glasses (does he even need those? Hajime thinks) perched high on his nose, his facial expression schooled into careful neutrality.

Hajime’s always felt a little stupid for thinking that Tooru couldn’t belong on this planet — that he should be somewhere just as ethereal as he is. Even then, it’s hard to feel stupid when he has to hold his breath as he looks at the other boy, when he has to remind his heart to keep beating no matter how beautiful Tooru is.

Willing his lungs to return to functionality, Hajime takes a seat in one of the plush, velvet chairs and waits.

When Tooru walks up on stage, the audience is awfully quiet after Kiyoko’s performance. Hajime watches as he takes confident steps, although the floodlights prevent him from trying to meet the other boy’s gaze.

Tooru looks incredible in his suit — all sharp angles and crisp cuts. He holds his violin loosely at his side as he makes his way to the centre of the stage. The boy bows to the audience, silently thanking them for taking the time to witness his music. There is a moment of tense silence as Tooru’s piano accompaniment, a boy with crazy white and black hair, makes his way to the centre of the stage as well.

The boy bows next to Tooru, before taking a few steps back to stand next to the stool. Tooru and the other boy bow again, a final greeting threaded with gratitude, before they begin setting themselves up. Tooru tucks the instrument beneath his chin, raises his left arm and lightly presses the bow of his violin against its strings.

Hajime’s heart wedges itself in his throat as he watches the other boy sit down on the stool, fingers hovering above the ivory keys of the piano.

Tooru tilts his body back slightly, and nods once, before he begins playing. The first few notes are light, sliding along Hajime’s skin like silk. He subconsciously relaxes into the cushions of his chair, letting the music wash over him. The piano picks up where Tooru leaves off, for a few bars, and then Tooru resumes playing.

Hajime knows, from the moment Tooru closes his eyes, that this is his way of answering that question. Tooru doesn’t communicate - doesn’t share his true self through words. He does so through his music, through the push and pull of notes as they drag Hajime into a completely different reality.

The music (he hears the whispers of the audience, slightly recognises the melody, Beethoven’s Kreutzer Sonata) encases him, and he, too, finds himself closing his eyes. Tooru does not play according to the rules. Some notes are longer than they should be, some notes are shorter, as if the score inside Tooru’s head was littered with the words a piacere, urging him to improvise over the main melody, giving the score his own personal touch.

Although it had irritated Hajime when Tooru’s hummed his own version of Clair de Lune, he finds himself entranced by this performance.

He feels himself fly toward the sky, he feels the soft touch of clouds and the gentle heat of the sun. He opens his eyes to see Tooru bend slightly at the waist, bringing his upper body closer to the audience as he nears a crescendo, the staccato of notes (allegro allegro allegro) each sending a spark of electricity coursing across Hajime’s skin.

He feels completely breathless.

Tooru bends back just as the piano notes all dip low, slow down, allowing the violin to stand out, and Hajime swears that for one moment, he can feel himself in Tooru’s body. He swears that can see through the boy’s eyes, because there is a flash of bright colours in the corners of his vision, purples and greens and a tease of pink. Suddenly, Hajime feels a surge of pride, just as Tooru takes a single step back, bringing himself closer to the piano, tilting his body to show off to the audience the way his fingers so quickly move across the neck of his violin.

It’s the same pride that Tooru must be feeling.

Hajime feels a telltale prickling on his skin, and he inexplicably senses Tooru’s eyes on him, despite the lights making it too hard to see, and he feels tears well up in his eyes.

Tooru’s music is beautiful.

He had no idea a piece as heated as this sonata could make him feel so much. For him, music had always been a dull background to the mechanical lifestyle he leads. It had nothing to do with his emotions, but rather to satisfy the persistent nagging of his parents. Play properly, play beautifully, rinse and repeat.

Here, he feels the way Tooru has poured his soul into the instrument. There are no machines driving the force behind that duo’s music. Only the passion Tooru feels as he opens his chest up to the audience, and invitation to see the miracle within him.

Discover me.

See the world as I do.

Hajime may be a musical machine, but Tooru is music incarnate. The violin is not another gear to work around, but an extension of the boy’s body, one that he pours his heart into, one that he throws out into the light, for the world to see.

All of that on his own, accompanied by a piano just as eccentric.

As if on cue, Tooru twists his body slightly, a smile breaking out on his face when the pianist grins back at him. It’s the first time Hajime finds himself jealous of another musician.

Jealous of that pianist. Of his freedom. Of that smile.

He, too, wants to sit behind Tooru.

He, too, wants to follow Tooru into that world.

He, too, wants to be the pedestal to Tooru’s freedom.

Tooru turns to face the audience once more as the pianist behind him reaches the final notes with fervour. The pianist’s hands remain hovering above the keys as Tooru lets his arms drop to his sides, effectively announcing the end of their performance.

The audience remains quiet for a few seconds, still coming down from the skies that Tooru has just led them through, before finally bursting into applause. People stand on their feet on either side of Hajime, some pushing onto their tiptoes as they cheer for the two boys on stage. Somehow, Hajime is also standing, also trying to make himself as tall as possible, his claps loud and resonating, hopefully enough to reach Tooru’s ears.

He feels something so overwhelming for Tooru, right then. A strange swell of his heart, a tightening of his throat, and a tingling in his fingers as he resists the urge to shout. 

Tooru, as well as his pianist, bow to the audience once, twice, before making their way off the stage. As he exits, Tooru waves at a group of fangirls screaming his name, face set in a charming smile.

When the contest finally ends, and the participants are free to return to the main hall, Hajime waits for Tooru by the board of results, which he knows is soon to go up. He watches as the different competitors run up to their families, laughter ringing through the room as they congratulate each other for the strength they displayed, being able to go up on stage and perform.

The moment Tooru spots Hajime, he makes a beeline for him, winding through the large crowd of girls attempting to catch his attention with practiced ease.

“How was it?” the boy asks, eyes shining with excitement.

“You were good,” Hajime grumbles, and although Tooru pouts, he does not pry for more compliments. They both know that Hajime has no words for what he experienced during Tooru’s performance.

“Obviously it was good,” he says instead. “It’s me we’re talking about.”  
Hajime sighs, running a hand through his hair as he begins to follow Tooru. When he notices that the other boy is leading them out of the building, he stops.

“Hold on-“

“Let’s go eat dinner together, Iwa-”  
They both look at each other for a moment, surprised, before Hajime clears his throat and points at the board of results, where more contestants had gathered. “You don’t want to see if you got to the next level?”

Tooru laughs. “I don’t need to see. I already know that I’m going onto the next stage. Didn't you see the audience?”

Hajime nods. It’s true that their reaction to Tooru’s performance had been overwhelmingly positive. There’s no way that could have gotten ignored.

“Now let’s go eat, Iwa-chan, I’m so hungry my hands are shaking.”

“I”m pretty sure that’s just stage fright, dumbass.”

“Stage-?! Iwa-chan, how dare you! I never get nervous! Why would the great Oikawa-san ever-”

“I’m going to punch you, you narcissistic prick.”

“In all honesty though,” Hajime says, after a small moment of silence punctuated by the slurping of their noodles. “I didn’t expect you to be this skilled.”

Tooru looks up from his bowl, surprised by the honest compliment. Hajime wasn’t prone to giving those. He sets down his chopsticks, picks up a napkin and dabs at his mouth. “I’ve been playing ever since I can remember. It’s never been hard for me to perform, especially in front of people.” He gives a small shrug, before his eyes widen and he points at Hajime, who instinctively frowns. “You! I heard about you, you know. Apparently you can’t perform.”

Hajime’s breath catches in his throat, and he ducks his head to hide the blush creeping up his cheeks. Damnit. He doesn’t know why, but he really didn’t want Tooru to find out.

“I don’t really know how to do it,” he confesses. “Never been good with people. Or having them watch me, anyway. Family’s fine, but the moment it becomes strangers it’s like I forget how to play. How do you do it?”

Tooru hums, picking up his chopsticks to stab them into a piece of breaded chicken. “I don’t really remember that there is an audience at all until I finish playing.” Hajime perks up at that. “I personally feel like music is an escape. I don’t feel like I’m on stage at all when I play. It’s like I’m in an entire different world. Like I escaped Earth and went off somewhere far away. Maybe another planet.”

He brings the food to his mouth, takes a huge bite of the chicken and chews slowly, waiting for Hajime to respond. When he doesn’t, Tooru swallows and continues talking. “I find it nice to play in front of people. To make them see what I see, if only for a moment.”

He then winks at Hajime.

“Plus the attention is only gratifying,” he adds. “They love me- ow!”

That night, Hajime decides that he wants to try it too. Playing out his vision of the world — the one that Tooru has shown him. To forget about the expectations of his parents. To forget about the opinion of the others. He wants to play because he, too, can love music.

Because perhaps, if he managed to do so, he wouldn’t feel so much like a music box.

Hajime informs Tooru of his decision in the morning, and the way the boy smiles at him sends his heart skyrocketing.

“When’s your next contest?” Tooru asks around a mouthful of rice. Hajime slaps him on the back of the head.

“Finish chewing before you start speaking, Asskawa. Can’t believe you’re half the school’s dreamboat.”

Tooru rubs the sore spot with a pout. “How rude,” he mumbles, mouth still full.

“My concert is next Friday, by the way.”

Tooru perks up at that. “Can I come see it?”

Hajime almost agrees without thinking about it. But then he remembers that, no matter how inspired he is, there is still the possibility of his usual machinery not working. There’s the possibility that Tooru could see just how pathetic he actually is.

“I don’t really-“ he begins, but Tooru interrupts him almost immediately.

“I promise I won’t scream your name from the audience. Or make any embarrassing sounds. I’ll even wear a disguise if you want, so that none of my fans show up. I just want to see you play.”

Hajime sighs, rubbing his face. “There’s a higher chance that I’ll screw up than blow your socks off with my music, Oikawa.”

Tooru chuckles. “Are you kidding? You’ve been working so hard and the colour of your music has changed. I don’t see how you could mess up.”

Hajime doesn’t want to admit it, but he’s half excited to show Tooru what he can do. Of course, Tooru hears him perform every day, but there’s something thrilling about being the one on stage, illuminated by the lights, opening his heart up.

There’s something inexplicably exciting about showing Tooru his feelings.

“How many instruments do you play?” Hajime asks as they walk home from school. Tooru hums to himself for a moment.

“Three,” he finally answers. “Although it’s kind of like languages. I know how to play the other two, but the violin is the one that comes most naturally to me. The others feel a little artificial when I play them. If that makes sense.”

Hajime nods. “I understand what you mean.”

There is another moment of silence before he speaks up.

“Which instruments?” he queries.

Tooru winks, flashing a peace sign. “The violin, obviously, the harp, and the piano!”

Hajime feels his cheeks heat up, a weight dropping in his stomach. He is so embarrassed. All this time, he’d been speaking to Tooru as if the other boy had no idea how a piano operated, and it turns out Tooru knew how to play it all along.

“Don’t look so surprised, Iwa-chan! The piano is the first instrument that I learned how to play. I was three years old, just a wee child, barely mature enough to venture into the harsh world of music-”

“Course you had to be better than me, even in my own field of expertise,” Hajime quips, interrupting the other boy mid-sentence, and Tooru throws his head back and laughs.

There’s one thing that Hajime loves the most about their friendship, and it’s Tooru’s laugh. Most people expect Tooru’s laugh to be a high trill, loud and obnoxious, yet somehow charming. Hajime was guilty of such an assumption. 

It isn't quite the truth, he discovers.

Tooru’s laugh is indeed loud, but when it’s honest, it’s booming. It comes straight from the middle of the boy’s chest, resonates around the room and forces Hajime to join in, no matter how angry he could be at the time.

“Iwa-chan," he wheezes. "Iwa-chan, you’re really strange, you know that? There’s no better in music.” Hajime is about to ask him what he means when Tooru looks up at the sky and gasps, pointing. “Look, Iwa-chan! It’s a full moon!” He reaches over to grab Hajime’s blazer. “How come you’re not morphing into a were-beast like we all know you are insi- ow! Iwa-chan, I’m serious! Nothing else can explain those muscl- Ow! Ow, ow, Iwa-chan!”

After giving Tooru a few more jabs to the side as reprimand for even comparing him to a werewolf, they separate, and Hajime goes to sleep wondering what Tooru could have possibly meant.

There is no better in music.

“What does it look like?” he asks the moment he finishes playing, stretching his sore fingers. He’d messed up quite a few times playing Einaudi’s Nuvole Blanche, his chosen piece for the contest, but he was slowly getting there. “I think I screwed up a bit.”

Tooru turns to him, placing his pencil down.

“It’s beautiful.”

“That honestly doesn’t help me,” Hajime sighs. “I mean, what colours? Should I change anything? Apart from the mistakes.”

“The right colours, Iwa-chan. The right ones. If you perform exactly like this in front of the audience, you’ll blow them away. I’m sure of it.”

Hajime shakes his head. “I’m still making too many mistakes. Once I get them down, though. I guess I’ll perform like this.”

Tooru sighs. “Were they really mistakes?” he queries. Hajime rolls his eyes.

“They weren’t on the score, so yeah.”

“I thought they sounded kind of like you.”

“Way to go, calling me a mistake, Asskawa,” he growls, but Tooru laughs softly.

“Not what I meant, Iwa-chan.”

Hajime feels a lump form in his throat. Tooru smiles up at him, gentle, sincere, and it’s the first time that he feels nervous about his potential failure.

Please, he thinks. Please let me perform everything right for him.

He is so nervous. His palms are sweating and he can feel himself fidget with every available surface of his suit. He knows the other contestants are looking at him. Of course, most of them are used to him sitting there, by now, but probably not used to him sporting an expression as eager as his.

His name is, once again, called, and he hesitantly walks up to the stage.

When he walks to the centre of the stage to bow, he scans the audience for Oikawa. When he does spot him, all the air he’d gathered leaves him in one swift breath with how nervous he is. He bows once and tries to meet Tooru’s eyes, despite knowing that the floodlights make it hard, before he sits down at the piano.

Freedom, he thinks to himself. Freedom. Freedom. This is for Tooru. This is to show him how you feel.

He raises his hands, presses his fingers against the keys, and begins playing. A note floats through the air, followed by another, and then another. It works. He is working. The cogs in his body are working together, shifting together, and music resonates through the hall.

He can hear the surprised whispers of the audience.

It’s perfect, he thinks, and he allows himself a small smile. The notes are right, they follow the score, and he wonders, briefly, if Tooru can see what Hajime saw during his performance.

Suddenly, his hand slips, he misses a note, and then another. Shit, he thinks, his heart fluttering in his chest as the panic slowly seeps in. I’ve fucked up.

He comes to a crushing realisation as his fingers begin to slow. He’d failed — there was no way Tooru would be able to see what Hajime wanted him to, now that he’d made mistakes. Now that it was no longer perfect. His fingers suddenly turn to lead, so heavy he can barely move them across the keys.

Everything is wrong. It was supposed to be perfect and now it’s not. He feels another shift in the clockwork. A great, unnatural one, and the doors to his heart shut with a loud clang. The cogs in his body begin stuttering, and he stops.

He doesn’t know how to play anymore.

With one panicked glance at Tooru, who is watching him with wide, surprised eyes, he stands up and leaves the stage, refusing to let the tears fall until he gets home.

He barely registers that Tooru chases after him.

“Iwa-chan!” the boy calls out. “Iwa- wait for me!”

But Hajime keeps walking, until there’s a strong hand gripping his wrist, and he’s being pulled back. He rounds on the other boy, almost colliding into Tooru’s chest from the ferocity of his action.

“Iwa-chan,” Tooru murmurs, eyeing the tears sliding down Hajime’s cheeks.

“What do you want?” he croaks.

Tooru hesitantly raises a hand to wipe at the moisture on his face. Hajime fights the urge to lean into the contact. Tooru smells of lilies. “Why’d you stop?” he asks softly.

Because it was wrong, sits right at the tip of his tongue. He wants to shout. It was supposed to be as perfect as you are, but then I made a mistake, and came to the crushing realisation that you’re way out of my league. Inside and out.

Instead, he shrugs. “I can’t perform in front of live audiences,” he says, ignoring the crack in his voice. “I thought you knew that.”

He turns and walks away, leaving a confused Tooru in his wake.

It’s been weeks since that concert. Since Tooru witnessed just how pathetic he is. Surprisingly, Tooru doesn’t mention the incident, opting instead to return to normal, pretending nothing happened that day.

He still jokes around, still insults Hajime’s intelligence, and still spends more time with him than anyone else. His constant presence at Hajime’s side is comforting, but the latter is still not satisfied.  
He wants to blow Tooru away. He wants to be perfect for the other boy. He wants to show him just how beautiful Hajime’s world is, with Tooru next to him.

With a pained huff, he slams his palms against the keys of the piano, the resulting sound startling Tooru, who had been dozing off against the wall, awake. He had made music look so easy. He’d shone so bright.

And next to him stands Hajime. A black hole, eating up Tooru’s brilliance.

“Iwa-chan?” the boy gently calls out, reaching up to rub the tiredness out of his eyes. “Are you okay?”

Hajime knows his breathing is loud and laboured. He doesn’t look fine. “I’m fine,” he lies through gritted teeth. “Just made another mistake.”

Tooru sighs behind him, the sound gritting on Hajime’s nerves. “Iwa-chan, mistakes don’t have to be mistak-“

“Shut up already!” he barks, effectively stopping Tooru in his tracks. “I’m so sick of your damn speeches. I don’t care how much you want to justify the fact that you can’t play properly by calling it ‘musical style’, and ‘freedom’ but there are some of us who want to get somewhere with their music.”

Tooru stares at him, speechless, before his expression hardens. “So that’s what you think,” he bites, though Hajime doesn’t miss the waver in his voice. “That I half-ass my music and make up some excuse as to why it sounds like I’m making ‘mistakes’.”

Hajime realises just how dumb he’d sounded. He doesn’t think that at all, of course not, but before he can so much as correct himself and apologise, Tooru is striding out of the room. The sound of the door sliding shut is suddenly deafening to Hajime, louder than the doors to his own heart, and he slumps back onto the stool, regret upon regret piling up on him.

Hajime gives up on trying to play for Tooru.

Tooru doesn’t badger him anymore.

Something clicks between them and, once again, Hajime finds himself in the empty room, a cog missing in his routine.

No matter how perfect the piano sounds, he no longer feels satisfied at his achievements. There’s no one to clap for him loudly, no one to point out the colours of his music, no one to shrilly sing along with him.

Hajime finds out that Tooru’s made it to the finals of his contest. Almost out of complete withdrawal, he attends the event, wearing what he hopes is a good disguise. When Tooru plays, it’s just as breathtaking. Nevertheless, something prevents Hajime from getting completely immersed in the boy’s music, like the first time.

There is an iron wall between the both of them.

Tooru’s closed off to him.

He doesn’t stay long enough to see who wins. He assumes Tooru does.

Tooru warily eyes the flier that Koutarou is waving around in front of him. He glances down at his own hands, the ones holding the offers for him to attend the festival, as well as two tickets. One for himself, one for a potential pianist, should he want to perform a duet instead of a solo.

Koutarou looks at him expectantly.

“You’re gonna to perform, right? You could get yourself so much exposure!”

Tooru chuckles, placing the tickets down on the small table between the both of them. “Of course I’m going, I just… You’re already performing with Kei-chan, right?”

Koutarou looks like he’s actually considering doing anything for Keiji, before he nods eagerly. “Yeah. He’s planning to do a 9 minute sonata too. My hands aren’t going to survive the night!” He laughs then, making a point to clench and relax his fingers against the smooth surface of the table.

“So I don’t have you as a pianist,” Tooru concludes, tracing the rim of his teacup with a slender finger. “I don’t really want to do a solo. I’m going to have to find one quickly.”

“Well,” Koutarou responds, looking out the window, at the rain droplets running down the glass in rivulets, “you’ve got time. The festival is over two months from now.”

Tooru hums in agreement, seemingly lost in thought, until he snaps out of it. “Nevermind that,” he says. “I already have a pianist. I just need to convince him to play with me, somehow.”

From the gleam in Koutarou’s eyes, it’s clear that he knows exactly who Tooru is talking about.

“No way.”

“Iwa-chan, come on! This is an opportunity of a lifetime!”

Tooru waves the flier in front of Hajime’s face, ignoring the other boy’s sputtered protests as the paper is almost shoved into his mouth. It’s the opportunity for us to make up, goes unsaid, but it is clearly heard by the both of them.

“Yes, the opportunity of a lifetime,” Hajime grinds out, snagging the flier out of Tooru’s wandering hands, “for you, Asskawa. People aren’t going to listen to you if your pianist makes a million mistakes. That’s assuming I don’t freeze the moment I take a seat.”

Tooru crosses his arms over his chest, face set in a petulant pout. “If you’re not performing, I’m not performing.”

“Oikawa,” Hajime sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, “for God’s sake, don’t throw away this opportunity. I know you love performing, and this show’ll have a huge audience. Even celebrities attend. You’d be throwing away so much exposure-“

“Well, considering I’m not performing unless you’ve got my back, I guess you’ll just have to start practicing with me.”

“Oikawa, you know I can’t. I’m going to screw this up for you.”

Tooru groans. “The only thing you could potentially screw up for me is if you refuse to attend. I don’t believe you can mess up if we’re playing together.”

“I can’t.”

“You will.”

He should have known he’d never resist Tooru for long. Hajime is in the practice room, setting up his sheet music, when the other boy barges in, carrying his violin case in one hand, and two books in the other.

“What are you doing?” he asks, watching as Tooru unfolds a music stand and places the books on the ground.

“We’re practicing, I told you,” Tooru replies, not looking at him.

“And I told you that I’m not doing this.”

“Oh, but you are,” and Tooru’s turning to him, his smile and voice as sharp as a blade. “Your music is beautiful Iwa-chan, but it’s monochrome. I’m going to make it so it’s colourful too. We’re going to do this,” Tooru takes a step toward him, leans down so his face is level with Hajime’s, “together.”

Hajime has to push Tooru away to hide the blush spreading down his neck. He’s never seen the other boy look so serious.

“What are we performing?” he asks, weakly, and Tooru perks up, immediately flashing that irresistible smile.

“I’m glad you asked! We’re playing Passagio by Einaudi.” As he explains his plan, Tooru picks up one of the books and flips to the appropriate score. He hands the book to Hajime, who hesitantly takes it. He takes a glance at Tooru’s hands and belatedly notices the amount of callouses on the other boy’s fingertips.

How come he’d never seen those before?

“Shouldn’t you want to play something a little more complex?” Hajime queries, flipping through the sheet music. “I thought you’d want to impress people out there.”

Tooru turns around, violin pressed under his chin as he tunes it. “You don’t need to play something complex to impress the audience, Iwa-chan,” he says breezily. “It’s what you can do with the music that is impressive. If I can manage to make you cry by playing the Birthday Song, then you’d say I’m skilled, no?”

Hajime shrugs. “I guess.”

Tooru chuckles. “I don’t want the audience to look at us, when we’re playing. I want them seeing stars.”

Nothing goes right.

No matter how hard he tries, no matter how perfectly he plays the score, he cannot line himself up with Tooru.

There is a certain amount of freedom that he’s allowed himself, of course. A few mistakes here and there, because Tooru’s style is, by comparison, wild. Nevertheless, no matter how much freedom Hajime gives himself, Tooru constantly sounds different. As if the boy was improvising, rather than playing the original score, and despite the simplicity of the piece, Hajime cannot follow.

The gears in his body stutter, they clank, they struggle and freeze, and he feels too inadequate to keep playing.

Tooru deems it the fault of the music room. “It’s too blue, Iwa-chan,” he says one day, after caging Hajime against the lockers. “It’s so blue even the silence has a colour, in there. Today we’re practicing at my house.”

And so they do.

Tooru leads him to a dainty house in the middle of Sendai’s backstreets. It’s flanked by two other houses, the paint on the outside yellow and slightly faded, but it looks homey nonetheless. Different, compared to the crisp white outside of Hajime’s own residence.

Tooru takes him inside and down a flight of stairs, into a room, where an enormous grand piano stands. It sounds heavenly, when Hajime presses the keys, and he finds, with barely-repressed glee, that the ivory is light to the touch.

And yet, he still cannot get it right that night.

Where Hajime wants to give up, however, Tooru is relentless. Every day after school, the other boy’s hand clamps around Hajime’s wrist and drags him to the small house. He finds himself staying over at Tooru’s more and more as the date of the festival draws near, hastily texting his parents that he will not be coming home while they cram their homework last second over a small meal, all before returning to practice.

It’s during those weeks that Hajime suddenly finds himself flooded with small bouts of information on the boy he cherishes so much.

He finds out that, even though Tooru is taller than him, he is much slimmer, and that his t-shirts are a tight fit. The first time Hajime walks down the stairs wearing one of Tooru’s shirts, the boy ended up sputtering and blushing, much to Hajime’s confusion, before forcing him to wear a hoodie, no matter what the temperature was.

He finds out that Tooru tends to stay away from his glasses, though he takes his contacts out the moment he gets home.

He finds out that Tooru’s mother dotes, and that Tooru somehow doesn’t find it embarrassing when she asks strange questions.

He finds out that Tooru is actually a terrible liar, and that his main tell is a little scrunch of his nose.

He finds out that the reason Tooru always smells of lilies is because he drips essential oils around his bed before tucking himself in.

He finds out that Tooru barely sleeps, to the point where Hajime's found himself wrestling the other boy into bed more than once, and when he does sleep, it is loudly. Whether he’s snoring, or talking, or shifting around, Tooru does not quiet down the entire night. For some reason, still unknown to Hajime, he finds that atmosphere comfortable. Almost easier to sleep in.

Hajime finds out something about himself too, during those weeks spent with the other boy. 

He finds out that he wouldn’t mind waking up to Tooru with a bedhead, dried up drool on his cheek and squinty eyes for the rest of his life.

“Oikawa,” Hajime says, a month into their repeated practice sessions. Practice was, again, horrendous, but for some reason Tooru only looks happy, despite the amount of times either he or Hajime messed up the score.

“Yes?” he chirps happily as he stashes his violin away. “What is it, Iwa-chan?”

“I’m sorry about what I said. You know. When I said you half-assed your- you know. It was really insensitive. I know it’s your style of playing. I know they’re not actually mistakes and I know you’re not the type of guy to hide behind excuses. So… I’m sorry.”

Tooru’s smile falls off his face the moment Hajime finishes speaking. “I saw you in the audience for the finals, you know,” he says quietly. “I didn’t think you’d come.”

Hajime shrugs.

“Either way,” Tooru continues, “it was just another contest where Ushiwaka bested me.” He pauses, glances at Hajime, registers the surprise on his face. So he hadn't won. “But I don’t hide behind excuses. I’ve never been really talented in music, but it wasn't an excuse for me to perform at a lesser level. It's always taken me longer to reach the level I'm at than the other contestants, and I will never get my fingers to move faster than they can. That’s why Ushiwaka, with his perfect form, his perfect loyalty to the score, and his natural talent, and little Tobio-chan, ever the prodigy, will always be better than me.”

Despite having no idea who Tooru is talking about, Hajime is ready to argue against it, but Tooru does not let him.

“They’re both better than me by definition. Because they can follow the score and make it sound just as perfect as the composer supposedly wanted it to be. But I ended up in the finals, didn’t I, Iwa-chan?”

Hajime nods

“That’s right. Because no matter how stuck up the judges are, they can’t deny that I showed them something magical. See, I realised something during my second year of high school. Most people come to me, after the shows. They tell me that I’m impressive. Not Tobio. Not Ushiwaka. Me. Because I stirred something inside their hearts. Because I made them feel. Because I let them explore a different world, for just a little while.”

Tooru sighs.

“I used to be really bitter about having to work harder than other kids. I stayed up until 10PM practicing the violin, while Ushiwaka was off watching TV and going to bed. I ended up with more hand injuries than I can count. At first, I hated Ushijima for it. Now, I’m grateful. Because it’s through him that I learned how to play for my own. Sure, there’ something impressive about playing perfectly, about having that much control over your fingers. I don’t deny that Ushiwaka, or Tobio are impressive players. But to me, there’s something even more exciting about harnessing the emotion inside those songs and turning them into something almost palpable for the audience.”

Tooru moves to sit next to him on the piano stool, the familiar scent of lilies accompanying him in small wafts. It hits Hajime then, that his idea of perfection and the perfection Tooru has achieved were on completely different levels. Where he’d been focusing on playing perfectly in order to achieve freedom, Tooru wanted him to do the exact opposite.

Tooru looks at him, for the first time in weeks really looks at him, the smile on his face so gentle that Hajime wants to kiss it. “Anyway, I don’t need to win these contests,” the boy says. “The way the audience looks at me after I perform, that’s better than any trophy I could ask for.”

Hajime almost praises him for being so wise.

“Also because neither Ushiwaka nor Tobio even know how to do what I do,” Tooru adds quickly, laughing loudly at something only he can see.

“You’re so petty,” Hajime says. Tooru laughs again, softer this time.

"I think you mean pretty, Iwa-chan."

Hajime slaps him on the arm. 

“About your apology, you didn’t actually have to say sorry. I know you didn’t mean it,” Tooru says, finally. “But it’s okay! The great Oikawa-san forgives you!”

Hajime shoves him off the stool.

Despite Tooru’s inspirational words, Hajime’s music remains the wrong colour. He tries to improvise, to twist the score into his own, but the moment he strays too far, the cogs in his body stutter, struggle, and he recoils.

The clockwork in his body isn’t made to be unrestricted, like Tooru is.

It’s made for routine.

For perfection.

“It’s blue, Iwa-chan,” Tooru says, for the umpteenth time that night. “Well, not the right blue. We’re aiming for this… dark blue. Add some green in there. A bit of purple maybe? Just —“

Hajime sighs deeply, feeling his resolve crumble. The whole past month of their rigorous practice, he’s been expecting Tooru to say you’re not good enough for me. Instead, Tooru praises him with litanies of “I believe in you” and “let’s take it from the top, you can do this”, and Hajime’s stomach twists up near his lungs

He’s so frustrated. So furious at himself for not being able to be what Tooru needs.

They have a week left until the festival, and still, still, he is useless.

His fingers feel stiff against the keys, and he cannot get the notes to ‘look’ right, and he’s going to bring Tooru down, if this continues. He’s going to dull Tooru’s shine. How can they make the audience see stars when Hajime is eating them all up?

“Iwa-chan,” Tooru’s soft voice breaks through his thoughts and he looks up.

This is it, he thinks. This is where Tooru finally opens his goddamn eyes and finally realises that I’m only bringing him down.

But Tooru simply walks to the middle of the room, lit up only by the moonlight and- when had the sky gotten so dark?

“Listen to this, quickly,” Tooru says, and he picks up his violin and begins playing, a soft melody. Hajime feels his mouth dry at the sight of his friend, hair mussed from running his hands through it, uniform slightly rumpled from when he’d riled Hajime up, and face relaxed into a small smile as he gently drags the bow across the strings of his violin.

He is so, so beautiful, he thinks.

“What does this sound like, Iwa-chan?”

“It sounds nice, I guess. Gentle. Soft.”

Tooru chuckles. “That’s not what I meant, dummy. Guess again.”

Hajime listens, even more intently this time. Tooru plays a few more bars before it suddenly hits him. Although it sounds different, with Tooru’s signature freedom changing the tempo in places, the notes in others, it’s clear that he’s playing-

“Clair de Lune.”

Tooru hums in approval, the sound barely audible over his music.

“Tell me, Iwa-chan, does it sound like I’m forcing the violin to play for me?”

Hajime shakes his head. “You’ve never sounded like that.”

Tooru’s mouth twists, though he keeps his eyes shut, immersed in his own little musical world. “You always sound like you’re trying to surgically work the sound out of the piano.”  
Hajime doesn’t know what to reply to that.

“Do you know why? I think I know why. I’ve told you that my violin is my heart. But I don’t think that’s how you’re ever going to operate. Rather, think of— think of music as a language. The notes are my words, and the violin is my voice. It should be the same for you, except,” Tooru pauses, “it isn’t. You’re trying to speak someone else’s words. The composer’s, to be more exact. Not yours.”

Tooru puts down his violin before making his way to where Hajime is sitting. When their eyes meet, Tooru’s twinkle like starlight, and he reaches over, hand at the same level as Hajime’s chest.

“How about you try playing from here,” he presses two fingers right where Hajime’s heart beats, “instead of up here?”

Tooru’s hand trails up his chest, leaving a burning trail across Hajime’s skin, before Tooru lifts it to poke him on the forehead once. When the other boy leans back, Hajime releases the breath he was unconsciously holding, cheeks blazing and suddenly thankful for the darkness in the room.

“Let’s try again,” Tooru says, and doesn’t wait for Hajime to come down from his flustered high before he’s counting down again.

At first, Hajime fumbles. He has no idea how to improvise, has spent very little time practicing, and it’s hard. The cogs in his body refuse to move freely, refuse to shift from the way they’d been working for almost 18 years.

Play from the heart, he thinks. Play from the heart. From the- from the heart. The heart.

Does he even have one? Can a clockwork machine have a heart?

Hajime has half a mind to flip the piano over. Tooru clears his throat, and Hajime looks up to find the other boy staring straight at him.

“Go on,” he mouths, lips moving around silent words of encouragement.

Something swells inside Hajime, as he focuses on the sight of the other boy’s lips. It’s a feeling so weightless that he plants his feet on the floor just to prevent himself from floating away. Slowly, but surely, he feels it, as his fingers skirt against the keys, bringing out a sound he never knew he was capable of making. There’s a small hiss in the back of his mind as the gears struggle, before dropping out of him, one by one, leaving space only for this intense sensation.

Everything is lighter, from his arms to his soul, and it’s easier to play. It’s easier to line up with Tooru’s strange score. Slowly, his movements become his own, no longer programmed by the clockwork, and his fingers seem to fly across the keys.

Tooru’s melody joins in, louder, and the world around them dissipates into something utterly different. When Hajime closes his eyes, the sound carries them up into the sky, past the stratosphere, where they float, unrestrained, amongst the stars.

He feels Tooru bare his soul once more as something clicks in Hajime’s body, and they’re aligned. Tooru shines, the brightest star of them all, and no longer does Iwaizumi feel dull, no, he feels himself shining too.

He wonders, briefly, as he opens his eyes and sees the fond smile crossing Tooru’s gorgeous features-

What is he seeing?

Hajime’s chest feels like it might burst when Tooru opens his eyes and their gazes meet. Electricity races across his chest and shoots sparks to his fingers, down to his toes, spreading a comfortable heat across Hajime’s body.

Love, his mind unhelpfully supplies, and his fingers slip on the keys again, but he doesn’t care, he cannot care.

He’s fallen hard and fast for Oikawa Tooru.

Not long after Hajime’s little slip up do they stop playing, and Tooru stands stock still for what feels like forever, face tilted toward the ceiling, eyes closed. Hajime forgets to breathe for fear of disturbing the other boy. Tooru suddenly snaps out of his trance, making his way over to the piano and plopping down next to Hajime. He hums, leaning his head on Hajime’s shoulder.

“Iwa-chan,” the boy whispers. “That was beautiful.”

As the night of the performance looms closer and closer, Hajime finds himself getting exponentially worried. At first it begins with a few jittery movements in class, his mind wandering to the future, but it very quickly developed into full blown panic at the idea of ruining Tooru’s performance.

Tooru, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to be worried one bit about Hajime’s notorious reputation. He eats his lunch, sitting across from Hajime, chatting loudly with two of his friends, who’d introduced themselves as Matsukawa and Hanamaki.

“I’m not worried,” Tooru suddenly snaps at Matsukawa, who raises his hands in defence. The noise breaks Hajime out of his nervous thoughts. “I’ve got Iwa-chan, and if we manage to play half as well as we do during practice, then we’ll be fine.”

Hajime chokes on his food, promptly dropping his chopsticks in favour of hitting himself in the chest a few times. Matsukawa and Hanamaki shoot him worried glances, although the twinkle in their eyes tell him that they’re also very amused with Hajime’s current situation.

“You’re so cheesy,” he mumbles once his breathing is under control again.

Tooru grins, bright as the summer sun, and Hajime can’t help but relax a little bit. “You wouldn’t like me if I wasn’t, Iwa-chan.”

Hajime doesn’t bother denying that.

That afternoon, Tooru grabs his hand on their way back to his house. Hajime startles, though he quickly relaxes. Tooru’s hand is soft in his, dainty fingers pressed against the warmth of his palm. Hajime squeezes the other boy’s fingers, and Tooru smiles, clutching Hajime’s hand just a little bit tighter, adjusting their grip to twine their fingers together.

“We’ll be fine tomorrow, Iwa-chan,” he says.

The day of the festival dawns on them, and as they wait backstage, Hajime can barely breathe. They can faintly hear the first performers begin their set. They’re a small, alternative rock band that had been shouting and hooting as they ran up and down the halls, trying to get their nerves in order before being called up to the stage. Hajime almost felt sorry for them, watching their jittery movements. Being the first performer of 16 was most likely the most nerve wracking thing.

Hajime thinks their music helps set the mood. Despite the majority of the numbers today being Classical performances, this type of festival was open to all different genres, from Metal to Baroque. He enjoys the way people here seem to celebrate music itself, no matter what it sounds like.

They won’t be judging them for form. They won’t be judging them for loyalty.

The atmosphere around them is much different than during contests. It’s lighter, without the weight of the audience’s expectations bearing down on them. Hajime feels a little bit free, despite the lump in his throat and the sweat slicking his palms.

He sneaks a glance at Tooru, who’s been sitting next to him the entire time, to find him idly playing with the cufflinks on his suit, humming to himself. He doesn’t look nervous in the least. Hajime has half a mind to slap him for looking so unruffled when a loud “Hey hey hey!” suddenly resonates through the hall, making Tooru perk up with a shine in his eyes.

The pianist that Hajime had seen perform with Tooru is making his way down the hall, toward them, his arms stretched out by his sides. Tooru jumps to his feet, squealing out a delighted “Kou-chan!”, before dragging the crazy haired boy into a hug that is heartily reciprocated.

Hajime would be lying if he said his heart didn’t clench at the sight.

Another boy, the same boy who had competed against Tooru in that contest, (Akaashi Keiji, his mind supplies), walks up to the aforementioned ‘Kou-chan’, but remains quiet. When Tooru’s attention turns to him, his expression shifts from careful neutrality to a mix between contentment and exasperation.

Hajime finds it an appropriate reaction to the eccentricity that is Oikawa Tooru.

The boy with the crazy hair, or Bokuto Koutarou, as he’d introduced himself, claps a hand on Hajime’s shoulder and tells him to do his best.

“So you’re Oikawa’s usual pianist?” Hajime queries as an attempt to make conversation. Koutarou nods excitedly, golden eyes wide and smile bright.

“Oikawa’s picky about who can and cannot play with him,” he explains, eyes momentarily shifting to where Tooru is fluttering around Keiji. “But for some reason he and I clicked really well. I guess it’s because it was easy for me to adjust to his way of playing.” He glances at Hajime, then. “He’s always been sort of… free, with music. Most of us, we look at a score and we let it take control. Oikawa isn’t like that, though - he’s the one who takes control.”

Hajime knows that.

Before he can reply, however, the announcer calls Koutarou and Keiji up to the stage. With a small flourish, Koutarou excuses himself, prying his violinist out of Tooru’s grasp and leading him up the stairs.

They wait another agonising few minutes before the piano begins ringing across the hall, the violin soon joining in. Some of the sound bleeds backstage, filling the quiet halls with a muted melody. Tooru hums over it, a trashy pop song that always gets stuck in his head, and Hajime once again feels like slapping the boy just for looking so relaxed.

“How are you not nervous?” he asks instead. Tooru stops humming, as if surprised by the fact that Hajime had directly addressed him.

“Why would I be nervous?” he retorts, tilting his head. Hajime shrugs, looking away to hide the sweat already gathering on the back of his neck.

“I just thought you would be, considering we’ve only really managed to practice properly for a week.”

Tooru chuckles, then, and reaches for Hajime’s hand, giving it a light, reassuring squeeze.

“Was that your way of telling me good luck?” Hajime quips, turning his hand so it lies palm-up against his thigh, twining Tooru’s fingers in his own.

“I’ve got you, Iwa-chan,” the other boy breathes. “I don’t think we need luck.”

When their names are called, Tooru grins, a million volt smile, right at Hajime. He’s the first one to jump to his feet, offering Hajime his hand and pulling him upright. They ascend the stairs to the stage together, hand in hand. Only when Tooru is ushered on stage does he let go.

As per usual, Tooru walks to the centre of the stage and takes a bow in silent thanks. Hajime watches him, his heart beating in his throat. He can feel droplets of sweat drip down the curve of his spine and his lips twist in mild disgust. He doesn’t remember ever being this nervous.

He’s ushered onto the stage too, and with legs somehow feeling like jello as heavy as lead, he makes his way over to stand next to Tooru. He takes his turn to bow to the audience, and they cheer, almost reverently. A few, slow claps welcome them onto the stage and Hajime suddenly feels the weight of their expectations.

Most people in the competitive musical world of Sendai city know of Tooru, of the ethereal beauty the boy takes up when playing his music. But they also know of Hajime, of the boy who has only managed to disappoint.

Hajime looks down at the piano. The keys swim before his vision, and no longer does his heart beat in his ears, no, it shifts, ticks away, clockwork returning to life with a hiss of steam and more sweat dripping down his back.

Tooru clears his throat discreetly, and Hajime’s gaze snaps up to meet the other boy’s. Tooru winks, sticking out his tongue in that ridiculous fashion and Hajime, in his irritation, doesn’t remember why he was nervous in the first place.

He hears the audience quiet down to soft murmurs as he raises his hands, before softly placing the tip of his fingers against the ivory keys, waiting for Tooru’s signal.

The moment the first notes of the violin float through the air, Hajime feels his breath being knocked out of his lungs. Despite that, he does not feel heavy. He presses the keys in time with Tooru’s melody, the ease of his movements taking him by surprise, and he takes a quick glance at Tooru to find the boy smiling against his instrument.

Tooru plays like he knows what Hajime wants.

And Hajime wants freedom.

He lets his fingers slowly adjust to the ivory keys, and although the song starts off slow, he can already feel the reality around him melting into something else. The ticking in his ears is slowly replaced by the melody of Tooru’s heart, and Hajime lets the other boy take the lead.

The notes of the piano wind around the violin’s, two intangible figures caught in an intricate dance, a dance of feelings, of expression. Their tunes jump, pirouette and twist in harmony, dragging the audience through to their world by the strings of their heart.

Tooru’s violin stops and Hajime is left to play on his own for a few bars, but this time, he doesn’t stop. He isn’t caged by another, he lets his own feelings, ones that have long since been buried inside his heart, spring free.

It feels right. It feels so right, and he lets his hands be carried on by the feelings, spreading heat from his heart to the tip of his fingers. Suddenly, Tooru bends his body back, and the violin picks up once again. Hajime dares to glance at the other boy again, scared to be distracted, but what he finds is his friend smiling at him.

Hajime smiles too, he can’t help it. His gaze slides from Tooru to the audience, seeing little but the surprised faces of those on the front row. The tempo slows down again, and Hajime hears a faint sigh leaving Tooru’s lips.

He finds himself speculating, once again, what colours Tooru is seeing, as they play together, hearts and souls bared for the audience to explore. He looks back down at the piano, lets the notes glide along his skin, and the world around him fades. He can feel the sun on his skin, and wonders if that’s just Tooru’s light. He can smell the lilies on the other boy’s suit, and tears tingle at the corners of his eyes.

Not yet, he thinks. Not yet.

He forces his eyes shut, aligning himself to the melody leaving Tooru’s instrument, and sees them again. The flashes of colours - a dark blue, littered with greens, pinks, purples. Small specks of white. Stars, Hajime thinks. We're making them see stars.  
He feels a surge of emotion inside him, knowing Tooru is feeling the same way, and he lets his chest open up. He feels the locks keeping his machinery together slowly dissolve into the notes floating around the hall.

Tooru is playing differently than how he did during their practice. The notes are longer in places and shorter in others, and he pauses at random intervals, forcing Hajime to improvise until the other boy joins in again.

They finish just like that, Hajime’s heart swelling in his chest as he plays the final few notes, accompanied by the melancholic sound of Tooru’s slow notes.

The audience remains quiet for a moment, minds still wandering through the world that they’d opened up. Suddenly, they are clapping, loudly and vigorously, shouts of appreciation and sharp whistles resonating above the cacophony.

Hajime stands up and takes a few steps forward to stand next to Tooru. They bow, once, twice, and a third time. While his head is lowered, Hajime faintly registers that the strange sounds coming from the other boy are sobs. Tooru keeps his body bent at the waist for longer than Hajime does, head hung low. When he straightens up, his cheeks are tear stained and his eyes are red.

Hajime would feel bad, if he didn’t feel like crying too.

“Thank you,” Tooru whispers to him, reaching for Hajime’s hand as they march off the stage, to the still roaring sound of the audience.

Tooru doesn’t even give them the time to be congratulated by Koutarou before he’s dragging Hajime out of the building and away from the park where the rest of the festivities were taking part. The boy pulls him along by the sleeve, wiping his cheeks periodically as he speeds down narrow street after narrow street.

When Tooru finally slows down, it’s in front of a small bakery. When he turns around, his cheeks are bright, despite the obvious red rims of his eyes. At least he’s stopped crying, Hajime thinks.

“I want you to come with me, for a sec,” Tooru says, pushing the door open and turning the lights on around the shop.

“Isn’t it past closing-“

“I live here, dummy,” Tooru says, rolling his eyes. Hajime startles, before realising-

“Wait a second, what do you mean you live-“

“This is the front door of my house,” Tooru explains quickly, voice tinged with annoyance. “Whenever we practiced, I brought you in through the backdoor because a lot of people from Seijou come here in the afternoon and I end up swarmed.”

Hajime snorts. "You seem to boast and complain about your popularity in equal measures,," he says. He tugs gently at Tooru's arm, stopping the other boy in his tracks, and steels himself. "What is the truth?" he asks gravely, but Tooru only barks out a surprised laugh. Hajime's facade crumbles quickly as he joins in. 

"Don't do this to me now," he whines. "This is supposed to go smoothly."

"When have things ever gone smoothly with you?" 

Tooru pouts, but doesn't grace Hajime with a retort. Rather, he reaches over and wraps his fingers around Hajime's wrist, tugging him impatiently in the direction of the stairs. Hajime follows obediently, watching as Tooru ducks into his room and comes out with two blankets. He then points at the small staircase to their right. When they reach the top of it, they step into a wide room, filled with musical equipment and old paintings, all gathering dust.

Tooru leads them straight to a balcony. Pushing the doors open with practiced ease, Tooru gestures for Hajime to step outside as well.

“Iwa-chan,” he says, slinging a soft blanket over Hajime’s shoulders, “can you look up at the sky for me?”

Hajime does as instructed, tilting his head back and looking straight up. Despite the light pollution of the city, he can see the stars, twinkling above their heads.

“When I was younger,” he hears Tooru say, “I wanted to be an astronaut, because I didn’t think I belonged here. Because I saw the world differently, because I acted differently, because I worked differently. But today was the first time I clicked with someone like I did with you. Never in my life have I so clearly seen music than when we played together. You made me feel like I was up there, Iwa-chan,” he whispers. “Like we were stars too.”

Hajime looks down to see the same starry sky reflected in Tooru’s eyes. For some reason, it’s more captivating this way.

“I love you,” he blurts, completely unrelated and catching Tooru by surprise. The boy’s eyes widen, before his body catches up to Hajime’s words and he turns red, clapping a hand over his mouth. Hajime quickly stumbles over his next few words, embarrassed at having revealed such serious feelings after having only known Tooru for the better of 7 months.

“I mean, I like you? I just- You’re amazing. And inspiring. And gorgeous. And I recently noticed that your lips… I want to kiss- God, Oikawa, say something before I can shove my foot any deeper down my throat,” he pleads.

Tooru whines, voice muffled by his hand, and Hajime briefly panics. However, before he can keep talking, Tooru weakly slaps at his shoulder. He then fists his hand in the material of Hajime’s suit and tugs. Despite the initial force of Tooru’s pull making Hajime stumble forward, their lips meet gently, and Hajime cannot help the sigh that escapes his mouth at the feel of the other boy’s mouth against his.

Tooru’s lips are soft, pliant, and although he doesn’t specifically taste like anything, Hajime can clearly smell the lilies, mixed with that strange blueberry chapstick Tooru spreads over his lips day in and day out.

He could get lost in that smell. In that feeling. He half wishes for it to actually happen.

Tooru whines again at the back of his throat when Hajime’s hands move to cup the sides of his face, before he slides one of them to Tooru’s neck, thumbing the soft hairs at his nape.

Tooru’s skin is warm against his, a stark contrast to the autumn air.

He really is a star, Hajime thinks.

When they pull apart, it’s only to rest their foreheads against each other’s, their breaths mingling, small puffs of mist coiling before them.

“I can’t believe you beat me to it,” Tooru gripes, and Hajime’s has to stop himself from laughing at sight of Tooru, his Tooru, usually oozing self-confidence and pride, this flustered. “I was going to be all poetic, and confess to you using space metaphors and these blankets, and maybe a little bit of an allusion to aliens.”

Tooru sighs, defeated, and Hajime finally breaks, letting out a string of giggles.

“I love you,” he finally repeats, watching Tooru’s mouth twist, before it relaxes into a small, almost reserved smile.

It’s a good look on him, Hajime thinks. The red on his cheeks, the shine in his eyes. Hajime leans in for another kiss.

When they pull away once again, a soft “I love you too, Iwa-chan,” is whispered softly against his lips.

**Author's Note:**

> If you managed to get this far, congratulations lmao
> 
> ok. I M AWARE THAT U DONT FALL IN LOVE THIS EASIly but they'r eyoung and impressionable and just tt //// they do love eac h other ok let them live  
> [[edit: fixed a continuity mistake (more notably, pie puns in japanese don't work, and it took me a while to realise this l m a o]]
> 
> Some of the colours actually had meaning///
> 
> Bokuto's turquoise/teal: "a colour that recharges our spirits during times of mental stress and tiredness, alleviating feelings of loneliness"
> 
> Iwaizumi's orange: 'brings emotional strength during difficult times'
> 
> Iwaizumi's blue: 'without conflict, predictable, a safe and non-threatening' hence Oikawa's strange fascination with Iwaizumi's music.
> 
> I would put sources but i opened like 600 tabs to collect a general definition and I can't be bothered to link them all.
> 
> Basically: Bokuto is febreeze and Iwaizumi is stronger than he thinks he is.


End file.
